A dwarf and his crossbow
by Alexeij
Summary: To see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, / Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand / And Eternity in an hour.


_Once upon a time in Thedas_

_'A Dwarf and his crossbow'_

_by_

_Alexeij_

_Kirkwall, Hightown, Tethras Mansion, Ferventis 17th , 9:26_

"Your older brother sends word that he won't be back for another week at least, if the weather holds".

Varric nodds dryly at Hugin without averting his eyes from the door. Closed. Barred. The dwarf lingers for a moment, the Tethras emblem sawn on his tunic glistening in the dim light of the lit hearth, then bows reverently and excuses himself from the hall. Varric barely notices him. A log pops under the assault of the flames.

The blond dwarf resumes his pacing, back and fro, back and fro, from one wall to the other. His thick fingers brush

slightly against the tapestry covering the whole side of that room. '_The siege of Ashleygh. Gaharel last stand against the Archdemon'_. He notices a loose hem on the bottom right and automatically sends it to mind. He paces the whole length of the vast sitting room two more times before stopping to stare wordlessly at the bedroom door. His bedroom. _'No, ours'_

Not a word, not a scream, a cry, a curse. Nothing. Eerie silence creeping up his neck and slipping into his ears, pounding at his brain, maiming, crippling his thoughts. He glares at the silver pommel resembling a roaring lion - Bartrand and his horrible taste for furniture - whishing for it to turn, to budge if only an inch, to break the unreal stillness and relieve him. Varric turns to face the fire, the lively, blazing hearth, surmounted by a carved mantle - old dwarven runes, the family motto that had doomed his father to exile - the sound of crackling wood spooling him, playing a prank on the prankster himself, the town fool poking him in the ribs and banging him in the head with a wooden hammer shrouded in crimson clothing.

He moves towards it, feeling the texture of the rich carpet under his hairy, bare feet, slowly, almost like a faithful at Summerday advancing towards Andraste's statue, one step after the other in religious silence. He rests a calloused hand on the stuffed head of his favourite armchair, leaning slightly against it despite himself, the green fabric faded by time and use; Varric lays eye upon the working table, slightly tilted to the left. The parchments, models, projects and minute drawings, the mess of ink and vellum: all gone, all _misplaced_. His hand closes into a fist, powerless and useless.

_She smiles at him from the carpet, raising her head from the latest notes. The fire plays a game of light and shadows with her face and hair, the rich chestnut turning into blazing red, her sky-blue irises shimmering eerily, darkening slightly looking at him._

_"We are so close Bear"_

'_NO!'_ he cries inwardly, banging his fist loudly against the stained wooden surface. _'Stop that, you foolish dwarf. Don't let her go already, not HER'_. Varric rests his head against the mantle, ignoringthe numbness spreading up his forearm, the usally pleasant warmness expanding from the hearth and heating his breeches and tunic and the flesh underneath.

_'She's going to be sore and weaker for a while, stuck in bed and forced to hear me bullshitting without any hope to flee and by the Ancestors, she's going to be mad at me. I'm going to face a lot of pain once this is over, yes I am'_

The creak of slightly rusted hinges reaches all the way up to his brain. The elf emerges on the threshold, weary and sweaty, dark circles under his eye sockets, the sleeves of his midnight-blue robes rolled up to the elbow. The towering Templar pushes him forward, gentle but merciless, a shadow in grey steel. Varric's mouth goes dry, the mage's wide eyes won't meet his. A shiver runs through him, freezing Varric on the spot. The dwarf voice emerges from the lower pits of hell when he speaks.

" Enchanter Orsino, tell me"

_Kirkwall, The Docks, Solis 24th 9:26_

The stench raising from the underground passage smells of slime and rotten, discarded food, feces and sweaty bodies, deep mushrooms and musk; it recalls the steam of the foundries, the humble elves dragging carts of heaped goods with hatred and fatigue digging their features and the Lowtown streets flooded by the summer storms, cheap alcohol and night workers patrolling the streets. Rats and mices and cats all skin and bones chased by big eyed children with watered mouths, gangs and pirates and slavers hunting at nightfall and bored city guards turning a blind eye after another treasuring their swollen pouches. Nets filled with fish unloaded from frail boats, rich, pampered Antivan merchants shouting out with their exotic annoying tones, the stank of hypocrisy and righteous holiness irradiating from Meredith Stannard's Templars.

It smells of home.

Under the archways and into the back-alleys only darkness is sovereign in the night, dark clouds heavy with rain and thunders hiding the slim moon from sight and marching restlessly upon the City of Chains, driven by the southern wind coming from the Frostback Mountains down in Ferelden, all the way across the Waking sea. Up ahead in the distance the first lightning pierces the ominous wall of the night, dazzling the odd observer and the few guards doing their rounds: it's hard to distinguish the thin line of the horizon with the sea growing rougher by the minutes. The first breakers fall down upon the deserted docks with a certain musical rhythm, rolling under merchant ships and war vessels and fishing boats with equal ruthlessness and clashing soundly against the old stones in showers of salty drops that carry the strong aromas of the wild roaring sea, assaulting the nostrils with a drawn sword and sending sharp jolt of liveliness up one's brain.

Varric inhales deeply, eyes closed, strengthened by the sparkling night air, every fiber of his body screaming in his ears.

"Can you feel it run in your veins, hum slowly with perverted suggestions?" he asks nonchalantly, giving his back the man he has come to meet.

Behind his back, the man tenses, his narrow eyes looking around every corner and behind every crate of shipping goods, the hem of his yellowish-green cape swaying around his thick ankles. "What?" replies the man, looking at the broad spot under his duster-coat, between his shoulder blades, where the awkwardly big crossbow rests inside its waterproof scabbard, the brass embellishments reaching all the way up to the curved butt.

"This city. It's intoxicating, once it gets an hold on you, you are in her pocket, slave to its marvels and obscenities; its rhythm plagues your very being and forces you to move according to its will. Damnit, before you know your wrist are tied and you don't even see the manacles" A pause, a natural instinct. The public holds its breath. He folds his ringed hands behind his back and straightens up only a little.

"Truly the City of Chains in its outmost glory"

The man shots him a perplexed look with his dull chestnut eyes, his brow furrows slightly. The first raindrop tickles Varric's ear, trailing down the edge of his right lobe and over the silver earring; the blond dwarf rubs it absent-mindedly. "I'm not here to discuss 'bout this city, Varric"

"Do you ever stop and look up? I know you don't, don't mind answering, always with your eyes fixed on the ground before your feet, like the good-mannered Dwarva you are. You should, nonetheless. You could lose yourself in that vastness and discover yourself at the same time. The sky is true to itself: to us, it may appear a prankster, a humorless trickster, a ruthless betrayer. But it never pleads for forgiveness."

He's drenched, and the man is as well. The pouring rain hides the very dead end of the alley from sight on one sight, only the sound of battering breaks hints at the presence of the sea not a hundred feet away on the other. The slime engulfs his boots as Varric turns to face the other dwarf, who now shields his head from the water onslaught beating the city with a paled hood. The gusts of wind lift the dwarf's cape, revealing the short, dented sword hanging from the belt and the hilt of a silverite dagger. Varric unconsciously raises an eyebrow at the sight, but immediately conceals his disgust behind a carefully-knitted mask of smug indifference.

"Pleading doesn't suit me, old friend. You know why I'm here" The dwarf's voice is a low growl, his sword hand shifting closer to the hilt. '_But he doesn't dare to stare at me in the eyes'_

"I do know Gerav. Do you?"

_Kirkwall, Lowtown, Hanged Man, Solis 9th, 9:26_

"My sincerest condolences for your loss, Serah Tethras". The Carta's envoy steely eyes don't show the least bit of sympathy, the tugs attention is on the slightest flick of his hands.

"Let's skip the formalities Dougal" Varric's voice is a sneer throwing off the envoy. He keeps his hands folded before him on the oak's dining table belonging to his brother. "We both know you don't give a shit. Let's settle our business and you can crawl back in your hole"

Dougal nods, his shaved head glistening in the low light of the candles Corff has cordially placed around Varric's quarters in the tavern, under his personal request. The dwarf glances around, a mild confusion on his face while he looks for someone who isn't there. "I was sent here to parlay with the head of the family. Where is Bartrand, Varric?"

Varric chuckles and leans back against the back of his favourite armchair, imported directly from Tethras Mansion. '_Bartrand is eating his nails up to his elbows and contemplating to expel me from the family, you nug'. _Instead, he purrs softly, forcing Dougal to lean in to hear him, his calloused hands gripping the edge of the wooden desk, the missing index attracting a brief glance.

"My dear brother is overburdened by the commercial side of our family activity. From now on you will be referring to me, and only me, regarding our... _partnerships_. I hope you will comply with our mutual needs"

Dougal glare is cold and hard, filled with frightening threats and close-minded stubborness, his open hands tightening in fists. Varric laughs it off and sweetly taps the crossbow resting at the side of his seat, the butt ready for a swift draw, the bolt already loaded and ready to fly. The dwarves lock eyes, a clash of wills and gears creaking inside thick skulls; the human tugs eye the crossbow suspiciously, exchanging a meaningful glance between them that doesn't elude the blond dwarf.

"Lads, cool down and take your eyes off the Lady. She's not on sale, try down the road if you feel like having company. Watch out though, Joy is no safe ride". The two bodyguards stiffen up and one of them begins to slowly draw his sword, only to stop at Dougal's raised hand.

"Very well, Varric. You have my attention" he grumbles. '_Arrogant fool'. _The mask of smug indifference remains in its proper place despite the temptation to grab the weasel and choke the life out of him, grinning widely at his underlings. '_Would do no good, huh?'_

"There is little to say. You have something of mine to which you have no right, handed by a dear friend of mine" Dougal's eyes run to the crossbow, but quickly go back to Varric's as soon as he resume his talking. "Don't mind denying, those projects are useless to you if you don't have the right _key_. I would consider it a sign of good faith if you just delivered them back to the rightful owner"

"And through a certain messenger"

Dougal nods dryly: the request is no surprise. The tone of the request is, though. Who does this dwarf believe he is? Just a spare to a lower surface House. Still, the bald dwarf is here to strike a valuable bargain to the Carta.

"We can come to an agreement, Varric. A quarter of your family introits for a year, plus a safe smuggling route in and out of the city." Dougal doesn't contain his smirk at the blond dwarf shocked expression. '_He thought I would ask for the crossbow. Poor slab, I'll wrap you around my little finger in no time'_

"You don't see the point, Dougal" Varric's voice loses any form of irony or sarcasm, a blunt hit in the envoy's gut. "You know, we keep many secrets from the others, but most of the secrets we keep from ourselves. And we call this 'to forget'. But sometimes the others dig up our little secrets, even the ones we have so carefully forgotten, my dear Dougal"

A shadow of doubt crosses the dwarf's face like a cloud in a clear sky, he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. Varric turns his face into a unreadable mask of stone.

"Like your third-level lyrium smuggle behind the back of Dalbert, your ruthless leader with a trend of feeding unfaithful underlings to his pack of jackals. Or your on-going partnership with that Rivani smuggler that passes you Qunari artifacts at a low price. And where do all the profits go? Not in the Carta coffers, or so I am told."

"You have been a bad boy".

Dougal fist bangs on the oaken desk with wordless rage, the two tugs take a step back towards the closed door. '_Jackpot'_

_Kirkwall, Lowtown, Artisan Stands, Summerday, 9:23_

_"Damn hot for a festival Hugin"_

_"Just as you say, young master"_

_Varric snorts and points out at the effigy of Andraste being carried by a vast crowd of believers and priests alike, with some Chantry Mother at head and her due escort of Templars in polished armor._

_"You should loosen up Hugin, else you might wear the sword helmet and cry for lyrium every week". Hugin rolls his eyes but keeps walking right beside the young Master. His late father had been so kind to give him position here on the surface so many years ago, and Hugin would repay his debt in service to House Tethras and its rightful heirs. _

_The blond young dwarf scrolls through the merchant stands eyeing the wares on sale and scratching profusely. 'Damn doublet and damn Bartrand and his ideas of proper gifts. Might as well cover me with honey and send me in the bears' pit". Another scratch, another stand to browse, the silver wanting to burn holes in his pocket. Yet another scratch and a sinister rip-sound. Glancing down, Varric can't contain a smirk. _

_"When one says that gift are meant to last" points out the young dwarf, poking the long cut in the blue and violet doublet, from under his armpit down to his hip. Hugin eyes it with an annoyed look, but keeps his demeanor in front of Varric's lack of respect towards his elder brother._

_"Bartrand will not be pleased, young Master"_

_"Bartrand can suck my toes, for what I care"._

_"Watch for he doesn't bite and maim your dainty feet" sarcastically exclaims a young, musical voice behind the two dwarves. Varric turns and is met with the most astonishing eyes he has seen in his quite short and quite adventurous life, straight chestnut hair framing a loving heart-shaped face._

_Hugin jumps in to defend his benefactor's honor. "Mind your tongue when speaking to your betters, girl"_

_The dwarven girl sticks her tongue out at the servant "Bartrand my better? Last time I checked I did not mate with nugs". The comment makes Varric chuckle loudly. 'I already like her'._

_"And by what unlucky chance did you happen to meet my dearest brother, sweetie?" he demands, a wide grin stamped on his beardless face._

_The girl makes a face and leans against her wooden stand, over some long coat made of some strange leather, putting her cleavage on subtle display 'Good girl knows how to play'._

_"Bah, I presented him with a project to patronize no longer than a month ago and had the chance to acknowledge his legendary politeness and unfaltering good manners. He shouted after me all the way down to my home"._

_Hugin snorts, but Varric silences him with a gesture, eyeing first the comely dwarf-girl and then the wares in display on her stand. "And what is your area of expertise? Leatherwork?" he states playingfully, poking at the duster coat with a chubby finger._

_The dwarf flashes him with a small smile, playful in her own way, and takes up the coat. "This? No, this is Father's field, I just help him out with the selling" A small pause, the girl knows how to keep an audience's attention, her musical voice does the rest of the trick. "He crafted this from some strange material he bought from Dalish hunters on the way from Ostwick, not three months ago. They said they had retrieved it from a dead Varter-Valtell- some giant spider-like creature. Quite resistant, if you want my opinion."_

_"Me? I am a weapon designer" she adds, pointing a dainty thub at her voluptuous chest, her voice heavy with pride. Varric closes in and gently takes the coat in his hands, slightly brushing his fingers against hers in the motion. The girl's eyes sparkle for an instant, then return to their normal, enthralling shade. _

_"Bartrands wouldn't know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw" 'This sounds good, will have to use it again'. Behind him, Hugin stiffens up, but the girl smiles amused. "Why don't you come with me and we discuss about your projects privately?"_

_The dwarf girl eyes him wryly, and sways the coat before his eyes in a way that results seductive to the younger Tethras. "Why don't we seal our deal with a little purchase? Thirty silvers, and you show your hairy chest around without modesty". _

_Varric bursts out laughing, earning an annoyed stare by Hugin, but he's to amused to care. He gently takes the girl's hand and spreads it open before him, piling the thirty silvers on it and adding ten more on the counter. Her eyes glimmer at the sight, and she hands him the coat, but Varric shakes an hand before his face in refusal._

_"I cannot change clothes out here in the open, my lady. I might require some assistance elsewhere" then he leans down and slightly brushes his lips on her knuckles. Looking up, she looks more amused than surprised, but the darker shade of pink on her cheeks doesn't elude his eyes._

_"Varric, unfortunately of House Tethras at your service"_

_"Bianca, of no house in particular, lord Bear"_

_Kirkwall, Lowtown, Hanged Man, Summerday, 9:28_

The cheerfull drunken cheers and the genral commotion dowstairs due to Summerday's celebrations fill Croff's ears as he leans against the door, his hands full with the evening tray, and pushes lightly with his weight. The door gives way and the light of the corridor creeps him from between the bartender's legs and around him. The vast room, reserved to his most faithful client for more than four years, is immersed in complete darkness, the shutters dutifully closed so as not to let the faintest ray of light slip through. Croff blinks a few times to adapt his eyesight and an aroma of wax and cinnamon reaches his nostrils, faint, almost eerie. A small light, a candlelight he realizes, burns dimly at the edge of the oaken table his client, Varric Tethras, always sits at.

Croff takes a step forward, then another, he almost stumbles on a disarrayed book. Under the candle's aroma, he smells the bitter stank of spirits he's so used too, finest than the one he serves at the common client. His best reserve, for the great occasions. Seeing the dwarf down a gulp from one of those bottles should surprise him, but the blond dwarf is as deft with his words as he is with his fingers; besides, he always pays his debts, so Corff just shrugs it off.

"Leave th' thray on the table, Corrrrff" mumbles the dwarf at the edge of the table, his usually combed blond hair in total disarray, a whiskey bottle in one hand and his oversized crossbow in the other, unloaded, bolts sprayed before him and probably on the floor as well.

Instinctively, Corff turn to the wall opposite the drunken dwarf. Nothing, no, he distinguishes the shafts, buried in the thick wooden panels. A dozen of them. Corff shakes his head, but again he shrugs the worry away. Varric always pays.

Corff makes his way to the door with a silent nod and the dwarf starts shouting against someone who isn't there, some 'Gerav' if his slurry words are to be take for granted. The shouts turn to sobs, the anger into mumbled pain, a stream of tears glistens in the dim light of the perfumed candle. Between the sobs, meaningless words slur out of the dwarf's twisted mouth and the bottle of spirit crashes hard against the carpet, spilling its contents on it and concealing the cinnamon in the air with its acre aroma. Corff realizes he is staring and shakes himself into reality, closing the door and the endless suffering behind himself.

Varric's voice is throaty and slurry and incoherent, the humming far-fetched and composed on a drunken whim.

_''Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, _  
_Smiles awake you when you rise. _  
_Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, _  
_And I will sing a lullaby: _  
_Rock them, rock them, lullaby.''_

* * *

_Author Note: Among Hawke's companions, Varric is the one we hang out the most and yet the one on whose past we actually know close to nothing. Who was Bianca? Why is Varric's realation with Bartrand so edgy, despite bortherly love and red lyrium idols? What happened in the years before the Blight?_

_I tried to give the hairy dwarf a little more background without being to explicit because I intend to use this very Varric, and more of the characters in the one shots to come, as actual characters in a future adaptation of DA:2. What do you think of my first try? Is the present-tense narration too banal _

_The five verses are from Thomas Dekker' "Rose"_


End file.
